A Matter of Advertising
by Mind in the Ankh
Summary: Vetinari meets an old friend through the magic of L-space. Machiavelli's fish and chips stand doesn't stand a chance. Crossover with Lord of the Rings. Chapter 5: Finduilas is most upset with the Patrician.
1. A Matter of Pollution

"A Matter of Advertising"

Vetinari meets an old friend. Machiavelli's fish and chips stand doesn't stand a chance.

PG for cruel and unusual treatment of canon and mimes. I own nothing. I only write what the nuzgul tell me to.

* * *

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork did not look up from his paperwork as the other man entered. Drumknot made a brief announcement of the arrival, thankful that all the visitor gave him was a knowing smile. The pale, dark-eyed man settled himself opposite Vetinari, perusing a report on the trade of Klatchian goods as he made himself at home.

"The Ankh is especially fragrant this time of year, or so they tell me," he spoke from behind the document. The armor-clad man held it closer than usual. Whether this was simply from an ingrained habit to hide his thoughts or to compensate for weakening vision, Havelock could not tell. His friend would no more admit to a weakness than he would. Like Vetinari, he was also not above playing up a handicap when he could turn it to his advantage.

Still, it was a harsh reminder to Vetnari that they were no longer vigorous, idealistic young men, ready to improve and protect their cities, at least until their respective kings returned. There was little chance of that ever happening for either. Instead, Ankh-Morpork and her sister city had ended up with a pair of cynical old men to rule them. Damned effective cynical old men, he might add, and as devoted to their countries now as they had been as youths, but there was no denying that their physical strength was fading. Gray streaked the other man's dark hair.

"So it is," Vetinari replied as casually as the other had spoken. He put down his own report and looked the Gondorian straight in the eye. "What brings you here? Your youngest get lost in the library again?" Havelock respected his associate's methods deeply, but he feared that the Steward left himself too exposed with his family. His wife and elder son, especially. Vetinari firmly believed that such a deep love as he showed to them would only set the man up for tragedy. Besides, his wife wouldn't allow him to have a scorpion pit, even after Havelock had offered some of his best breeding stock. She had been afraid that the children would get into it.

"No, the family's fine. Just fine." Normally this fellow's acidic tongue cut straight to the heart of the matter. Whatever it was that had brought him here must be particularly upsetting, to leave him dodging the subject. "Your dog?"

Part of the reason that the Patrician enjoyed his visits with his friend was their ability to cut through the political niceties with one another. They had tested one another's limits early on, steely gray stare meeting carefully blank blue, but after these early tests of mettle, the Steward had dropped the game. It disappointed Havelock to see him return to this ineffectual armor, but if that was the way that he wished to play, Vetinari was a master of the game.

"We just had his new dentures implanted. Igor says that it may still take him a few days to get used to them, but he should be back to his old self in no time." The Gondorian's vague smile twitched. Doubtlessly he was remembering his last less-than-pleasant encounter with Wuffles, whose old self was hardly loving and friendly. The Patrician allowed himself two blind spots: his (truthfully exaggerated) phobia of mimes, and his elderly terrier. No expense was too great for the ball of thin, wiry fur and smell that could rival Foul Ole Ron. The Steward frowned upon it in the same manner that Havelock disapproved of his wife, but neither was likely to be able to change the other's mind, so they politely tolerated each other's little eccentricities.

The shifting gray eyes at last found sympathy and understanding in the Dog Botherer's icy blue. "How do you do it?" Vetinari offered him one of his lightning-quick smiles.

"I agree to their demands, and in return, they agree to mine." He knew the man did not speak of maintaining their countries.

"Aye, but it's a bit more difficult than a mere social arrangement. My sons need to be protected, as well. And what they do to my poor Finduilas..." He took his head into his hands, old sword callouses hard against that finely carved face. Vetinari counted himself lucky that for all that Mad Lord Snapcase had left him to sort out, all nearby demons had been left firmly in the hands of the wizards. The other fought more than trolls, orcs, and bureuacratic nonsense. The remains of his youthful inferiority complex made it painful for the Gondorian to admit that he was at his wit's end with the problem.

"They'll weather this out well enough. If you point your boys towards strong women, or better yet, have them follow the old Dog Botherer's example, most of this will slide off like water from a duck's back." He smiled sardonically at the hatefully bestowed nickname.

"And straight down the neck of the man beneath. You don't leave much of a future for your line, old man, nor would that method leave one for my own." He had turned to look out the window, making reference to a beggar wandering outside the palace.

"It is easier for me," Havelock admitted, steepling his long, narrow fingers. "The guilds manage themselves, and if they are perhaps not open to change, it is a simple matter to change their minds. I have had time to train my successor in running the city."

The Steward allowed himself a brief snort, mannerisms of his rough-and-tumble military days returning easily in the presence of his old friend. "You have had the time you could possibly require, but I have not yet met the man."

"Don't be so sure, Denethor," Vetinari chided, his eyes flickering to the anteroom where Drumknot was attempting to hold back an irate Vimes. No one was to disturb them while the Patrician met with his "friend from the library." The Gondorian looked at him askance, but let it slide without comment. They both had their secrets.

"Better luck to our heirs, then, with this infestation." Vetinari nodded in wordless agreement, and Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, stood, moving toward the bookshelf. "I know I shouldn't have come; it exposes the city to too many weaknesses, but it is nice to see a place that is yet so unpolluted."

"That's a rare statement to be made about the Ankh." Havelock did not accompany him. Although he understood the mechanisms that linked the cities through L-space, that did not mean that he was particularly fond of the pathway.

"It contains many other things, Havelock, but it does not yet run with your blood, nor glitter. Be thankful for that." Vimes had observed that anyone meeting with the Patrician generally left with the impression that they had been lucky to escape with their limbs intact. For once, this feeling had been left to the Dog Botherer.


	2. A Matter of Books

AN: Not mine. A little prequel piece, as the bunny strikes. The L-space Theory and all Disc characters are Pratchett's, the Hurins and the Silm are Tolkien's._

* * *

_

_Books equal Knowledge_

What it all came down to, in the end, was the picture book. Faramir loved that story, the florid script, and the colorful insets that burned the tales of the great heroes onto his young mind. He could pour over a single illustration for hours on end, imagining himself in the place of Beren, or Turin, or Glorfindel the elf. And sometimes, although he did not like his brother to see it, he would pretend to be Huan, the hound, or Daeron, the minstel who recorded these great tales. Boromir would think him dull, for his elder brother would fidget during their bedtime stories, and sometimes beg to skip "the boring parts" of Beren meeting his Luthien, or Turin's long years of wandering. Their mother would agree to this, provided that Boromir was willing to read the next three pages for her. While the time that Boromir spent faltering with the longer words allowed Faramir plenty of time to look at the dragon Glaurung, his missed being able to see the woodlands, and the elf-woman dancing through them that was almost as pretty as his mother.

_Knowledge equals Power_

He would whimper sometimes, as Boromir read aloud, but he would always insist on getting to see the pictures. Faramir had often wished to be just like his big brother when he grew up, but the younger boy did not understand how Boromir could spend all his time looking at the frightening dragon and Morgoth on his dark throne without being so scared. There was always the calming voice of their mother, gently correcting Boromir in soothing tones when he missed a word in his urge to speed through the tale, but Faramir thought that they would both benefit quite a bit from getting to see more of Luthien and Nienor instead of just the scary orcs.

_Power equals Energy_

And so, he had taken upon himself the noble quest to find the book and show his brother the beauty to be found along with the adventure. Hearing about the library as being full of books, Faramir decided that this would be the best place to begin his search. There were so many books here, on shelves that would tower even above his father's head, that the boy didn't know where to start. He tugged a low-shelved volume off the bookcase, but there weren't any pictures at all in it! Mildly discouraged, Faramir toddled onwards, leaving the book open on the floor. He had repeated this process several times, but with no more luck than his first trial. Now, Faramir realized that he had become thoroughly disoriented. Tired from the work of lifting books and climbing shelves, the little boy sat down and began to cry. This, however, produced no loving parent to scoop him up in its arms and kiss him, nor older brother to hold his hand, offer him a sweetie, and walk him back to the nursery, nor even a servant to find him and scold him for wandering off by himself.

_Energy equals Matter_

Drying his eyes, Faramir tried to think of what his big brother would do. Boromir would not sit here mewling; he would try to find his way out by remembering which books he had left where. However, this did not work so well for Faramir, for he was not yet old enough to know how to read, and most of the books covers were the same dull brown, with little differences in their bindings that Faramir could make out. His mother had always told him that books were his friends, but right now the annals of history did not look very congenial. Faramir was scared, but since he had decided that his brother certainly wouldn't have shown fear, he wouldn't, either. Sucking his thumb resolutely, he turned down a new corridor of the library.

_Matter equals Mass_

When he saw the tall figure in austere black robes, Faramir knew he was at last on the right track. "Ada," he called, tugging upon the man's hem and holding his arms out to be picked up.

"My Lord? Is that yours?" The aide considered the toddler distastefully, but the man in black simply turned and crouched to look Faramir sardonically in the eye. The boy stared gravely back, his thumb returning to his mouth.

"Can we help you sir?" The squatting man offered him a smile, but this was not Faramir's father. The robes and the height were the same, but the eyes were a bright blue, not his father's familiar steely gray.

"Wan' Ada," Faramir stated, as boldly as he could. He should have brought Boromir with him, but Faramir would not have been able to sneak out of the nursery if their governess had not been so busy with his brother at the time. Still, Boromir would have come up with some better plan than he had formed.

"And who is "Ada," boy?" the aide sniffed. Faramir decided that this fellow must be very stupid.

"A-da," he repeated more slowly, for the standing man's benefit. "My Ada." He looked to the man in black for assistance. If he dressed like the Steward, Faramir decided, he would probably know Denethor very well.

"And who would you be, son?" the taller man asked.

"Sir, do we really have time for this? Surely the boy's mother shall be along to collect him shortly." The other man looked about the library for salvation in the form of some other servant.

"Quite possibly. However, I like to keep these things running smoothly. It would be poor manners not to help a fellow searcher find what he is looking for, now, would it not?" The aide's smile trembled as the taller man stood, brushing off his robes. "Ah, but my knees are not cut out for this sort of work anymore," the blue-eyed man sighed. The aide looked even more frightened. "What was that again, young sir?"

Faramir was a bit confused. He had not yet told the man his name. He supposed that was simply one of the foibles of adults. His father sometimes missed what he had said when he was talking with other grown-ups, although Denethor always seemed to know more than he had first let on about what Faramir was saying, especially if Faramir really meant to not let his father know about that vase that he and Boromir had knocked over. Standing up straight, he took his thumb out of his mouth to introduce himself as he had been taught to. "Far'mir son Den'thor," he said in his most formal talking-to-adults voice. He then popped the wet digit back into his mouth, musing over how adults listened even when they weren't really listening. "Who're you?" he asked after a moment.

"Well, Far'mir son of Den'thor, my name is Havelock. I take it you are eager to get home?" Faramir nodded, deciding that it would be all right not to correct Havelock's pronouciation for now. "I know someone who might be able to help you, but you'll have to promise me that you won't call him a monkey. He doesn't like it very much."

"What's a monkey?" Faramir asked.

"A primate with a tail," the man said, picking him up.

"C'n I see a picture?" Faramir asked hopefully. Maybe, even if he couldn't find the book on Luthien, he would come out ahead on this adventure.

"We'll see if we can't find you anything," Havelock assured him. "Squonters?" he nodded towards the aide.

"Yessir," the man said, taking off in search of a copy of _Illustraited Guyde tew thee Anymals of thee Disk_.

_Mass equals Space_

Faramir didn't know how anyone could have confused the Librarian with a monkey. He certainly didn't have a tail. His governess smacked his fingers for running off and making up tales, but when the boy was returned to the nursery, Boromir quite agreed that it was a very fine picture book. He especially liked the swamp dragons, but Faramir's favorite was the four minature Oliphants standing atop the turtle. How tiny they must be to fit on the small shell! And still they were strong enough to hold a circular contoured map, with little people placed upon it.

_Space equals Time_

On that little toy landscape, atop those four minature elephants, on the turtle's shell, the tall man in black walked out of the largest library in existence. The Librarian had not only taken Faramir home, but also had been kind enough to show Havelock the path between the shelves. Havelock had come searching for a certain book, but he had found a much better resource in the process. Stepping into his carriage, the Patrician licked his thumb and forefinger before flipping open the private diary. He would have to bring _The Servant_ over sometime for comparison.


	3. A Matter of Observation

Rating's PG for a reason: Boromir, Faramir, and Samuel get under your skin and won't leave Denethor and Havelock in peace...

A/N: Tolkien's is Tolkien's, Terry's is Terry's, and mine is nothing. The mirian is the typical "dollar" of Gondorian currency: a golden coin worth four silver canath, according to "_The Peoples of Middle-earth_." How many AMD it's worth is beyond me.

* * *

Vetinari relaxed in an austere armchair, watching the two gangly boys sprawled before the fire. He usually did not worry much about his seating arrangements, but he had decided that his aging body could afford the excess comfort of a wooden armchair, after what he had put it through today. He had sent them running all over the city, and yet the teenagers still had enough energy to take up a playful, desultory argument concerning their findings today. The elder boy, already as tall as his father and built like a young ox, groaned and pushed his little brother away when a bony elbow dug into his back. "Don't start, Fari. 'M exhausted," he told the twelve-year old. 

"Just admit it, Boromir. You like it here." The younger boy poked him again until his brother caught the finger in a large hand.

"Ankh-Morpork is a bitch," the seventeen-year-old quoted Vimes. "It smells, the noise is awful, and the sanitation would make an orc complain. I'd much rather be back at the garrison."

"But you like the people. And you keep planning ways to improve the city whenever you look at it, I know." Boromir rolled over and gave his brother a look, but Vetinari had already noticed the same urges to improve everything around him within the elder boy. He did have his father's drive, even if the heir apparent lacked Denethor's insight into the human psyche.

"Well, you do have to admit that this place is hardly defensible. The gates are rusted open, the water's unfit for drinking, and you could practically march an army atop the Ankh into anywhere you liked in the city." He gave his guardian an injured glance, as if blaming Vetinari personally for hundreds of years' worth of shoddy Ankh-Morpork construction.

"Ah, but we have one major weapon in our arsenal that our sister city lacks," Vetinari, proud Morporkian, spoke up. "Our enemies require money, and the Ankh-Morpork dollar reigns surpreme."

Boromir grunted. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could buy off Sauron for a few mirian?"

"Aye, it would." Lying next to his older brother, Faramir's smile twisted as he stared up at the ceiling, hands resting beneath his head. Vetinari had to agree as well. While he was sorely out of shape when it came to keeping up with his friend's sons during their visit to Ankh-Morpork, it concerned the Patrician that Denethor was also no longer able to keep pace with his sons. The inevitable had happened to Lady Finduilas, and the Steward seemed to have lost all energy with his wife's death. Already Boromir had seen his first battle, and within the year Faramir would be joining the ranks as well. It wouldn't take Detritus's thinking helmet to know how close to the edge the Gondorian was.

Lazily, Boromir poked at the fire, stirring a brighter blaze from the dying coals with his swordpoint. "Uncle Havvie?" the younger boyasked.

"Yes, Faramir?" The boy was more intelligent than his brother, but the younger son of Denethor had always seemed content to follow, making it hard to judge just how much he really knew about a situation.

"Why do we always come here to Ankh-Morpork? How come you never visit us?" An innocent question, but pointed nonetheless. If he had not dealt with Captain Carrot, Vetinari was not sure that he would have been able to handle the boy. No wonder Denethor often found himself at wit's end when dealing with his younger child.

He considered a simpler answer, but honesty tended to be the best policy with Faramir. The boy could smell a lie, and given Boromir's encouragement, he would ferret shamelessly for the truth. "You two are Denethor's heirs. We cannot guarantee your saftey. However, there are measures that we might take to better protect you," Vetinari answered seriously. "These measures are most easily carried out in Ankh-Morpork."

Boromir had developed a wide array of snorts of discorn, which Havelock was going to have to train out of him before the heir got any further in his diplomatic grooming. Having Vimes around to frighten the nobles was one thing, but a ruler could hardly afford to be seen as stubborn and uncouth. "Perhaps it protects us, but what about my troops? What about Minas Tirith? Are our people protected by your Assassin's Guild? I think not." The boy – now a young man, really, - had his mother's deep-rooted patriotism, but whereas it had sapped Finduilas of her will to live, the fiery devotion for his homeland made Boromir seem more alive. He spoke about Gondor and its people with the same passion that most boys his age would reserve for a childhood sweetheart. He was seventeen, a foot soldier of little rank, and already they were "his" troops. Given the weapon-skills to match his ardor, there would be few armies that would be able to stand a chance against Boromir son of Denethor.

"How safe would the city be without her Steward, Boromir? There are other places one may lead than from the front of a suicidal charge." Vetinari raised an eyebrow, and Boromir returned to poking the fire. Faramir observed their exchange silently.

During the lull in conversation, Havelock returned to his neglected paperwork, and circumspectly, to his overtaxed joints. He had not covered so much of the city by foot since his days in the Assassin's Guild, but it had been worth it. Boromir and Faramir were ostenibly here as diplomatic observers, so it was best that they get some actual training in.

Discretely chauffering the two boys about the city had given Vetinari a chance to observe as well. Boromir, for all his genuine desire to improve his surroundings, was best left in Gondor. The boy was too blunt, too headstrong, and just simply too in love with his country to see another's point of view. He would be dependent on Faramir for diplomatic issues, but at least this dependency would give the younger brother a solid position in the next regime. Even with family members who wanted what was best for you, it was always a good idea not to let the smart ones get bored, Havelock reflected. He would hate to think of what trouble his aunt would have gotten into without the Genua business to keep her occupied.

Leaving his brother to sulk for a moment, Faramir stretched and sidled over towards Vetinari's chair. Out of habit, the Patrician adjusted the top sheet so that it could not be read from upside down. Denethor's sons might be allowed certain privileges, but the boys were not prepared for every aspect of running a city just yet. At this point, it was best to still treat them as he would any other potential protégé: give them just enough of a glance to gain their attention and make them find the rest out for themselves. "We weren't out on our own today, were we?" Faramir asked softly, so that his voice would not carry to his brother. Havelock gave him a mild glance, displaying neither amusment nor surprise. The boy had the audacity to wink at him. The Patrician would have plenty to recount back to Denethor when the Steward asked for his sons' reports.


	4. A Matter of Taste

A/N: I admire Terry, Peter, JRR, and even George L., for all his faults, but own none of their work. There might be an epilogue, but this is likely to be the final matter, for reasons that shall become apparent. Thank you all for your encouraging reviews!

* * *

"Have you cleared this with the wizards?" Vetinari asked the white-haired man who fiddled with the projector.

"Well, actually, I haven't, my Lord, but surely there's nothing wrong with a little click. The Librarian rated it four thumbs up." The Partrician gave him a reptilian stare. The inventor turned a disk-for-storing-similar-little-bits-of-information-compactly sheepishly in his hands. "Rincewind still owes me a favor…"

"He is the leading expert on the Dungeon Dimensions," Drumknot added reassuringly, passing Leonard the bag of banged grains. There was just something about them that always made a click run better. Vetinari supposed it must be the imps. "This'll be fun, sir." The head clerk gave his employer a wide grin. This was the first time that Rufus had been allowed to witness one of Leonard's special projects, and he was taking a pleasure in it akin to a child with a Hogswatch present. Drumknot had not witnessed the making of Leonard's exploding coffee eariler in the day.

Although, the Patrician reflected as he sipped his warm beverage, the coffee had not been a total disaster. The remains of the machine had been recombined to make quite a nice self-heating teapot. "There are worse portals than those leading to the Dungeon Dimensions. I have it on good authority that this thing opened up a portal into a realm totally unknown to researchers on the Disc. Things come out of it that you cannot run away from, and very few can fight."

"Are those the worcs that your friend from the library mentioned, sir?" the clerk asked delicately. He was no longer so certain that every invention made by this harmless, good natured, little man was as benign as its creator.

"Those would be orcs and Wargs. Honestly, Drumknot, if you are going to listen at the keyhole, you should be getting your information right." Rufus had the courtesy to appear properly abashed.

"Vimes was fairly loud, my Lord," he mumbled apologetically.

"I might be able to construct some sort of sound-amplifcation device that would allow you to hear better. After studying the human ear, it appears that something to increase the size of the pinnae would work well, or perhaps a device to make the tympanic membrane vibrate better; you do want to be discrete, after all…" Leonard was off and doodling. "How large are your ears, Mr. Drumknot?"

"Maybe we'll work on it later," Rufus waved him off vaguely. Leonard nodded happily, considering how one might combine a gauging device with a quill for spur-of-the-moment measurements. Perhaps he could add a balancing device as well; there were enough spaces in bird feathers that a little bubble might be left floating in the ink without disrupting the flow of the pen… "Leonard? Did you still want to watch the click?" Rufus Drumknot, gueina pig but for the grace of the gods, called the absentminded inventor back to reality.

"Oh, yes. But what are these terrifying creatures from other dimensions that worry you so, my Lord?" Leonard of Quirm sat down next to his employer, appearently not the least bit bothered by the thoughts of beings that could tear him to pieces.

"Fangirls," Havelock said darkly. "Boromir followed my advice, but they still got to him in the end. Faramir has been twisted by them, barely surviving thanks to his wife. And Denethor… I do not wish to think about what might drive such a man to burn himself alive." Drumknot looked startled, and even Leonard's rose-tinted reality had been intruded upon. The inventor scribbled thoughtlessly in his notebook in an attempt to cheer himself up. The fact that the image producted was of an improved Aegatean flamethrower did little to improve Vetinari's mood. "I invited you gentlemen here today because we are all currently in Boromir's position. We are well known in Ankh-Morpork, and currently unattached. This makes us the most likely prey, should the wrong portal open."

"Are you suggesting that we find… girlfriends, sir? Because I suppose I could go down to the Watch-house and ask if some of their ladies are available, sir. Or maybe ask one of the maids to do something after the click." Rufus looked a bit confused. He had not had much experience in that department.

"I fear that might only make things worse, Drumknot. These creatures have been known to possess perfectly innocent women. Just stay on your guards, keep a low profile, and leave the ink-stains on your hands." Vetinari advised.

"Ink stains, sir?" the clerk asked, surveying his pigmented fingertips.

"The second-best proven tactic after being a dwarf. For some reason, our shorter countrymen seem naturally immune to the fangirl threat." The Patrician stroked Wuffles uneasily, hoping that the dog would prove the third most effective weapon against Sues.

"Are you sure you wish to watch this, my Lord?" Leonard asked gently. "We know that it does not have the happiest of endings for your friends."

"The Librarian has already seen it, and it may leak to other sources as well. Best that we are prepared for the worst," Havelock replied firmly, before he could allow terror to overcome him and curl up around Wuffles.

"The Librarian was in another dimesion, of course. They had been showing it at something called a 'film festival," I hear." Leonard told them.

"A film festival? That's an odd name for a round of clicks." Rufus looked at him askance.

"Apparently, he was also mistaken for something called a Wookiee."

"Strange people." The clerk accepted a handful of banged grains as the title credits rolled on the screen. "How bad was the damage?"

"Not too bad. They had handed out banana daqueries and some edible dwarf bread before they showed the click."

"Edible dwarf bread? Isn't that a contradiction in terms?" Leonard shrugged, sipping his ginger beer and taking notes on the onscreen armor.

"Lembas is elvish, actually. It won't hurt you, but I wouldn't trust the Eldar any further than I could throw them," Vetinari spoke up at last, intercepting the bag of banged grains as it went about its rounds between the two men on either side of him. He offered the first kernel revelentially to Wuffles, careful to avoid the dog's teeth. They were coming unglued again. He then pulled out another piece for himself, ignoring Rufus as the clerk reached over his tea for another handful. There was just something about banged grains that always did make a click run better.

As the final credits rolled, Vetinari allowed himself to relax and look about their private theatre. On his left, Drumknot attempted to remain circumspect as he blew his nose into a monogramed hankerchief. On his right, Leonard was reviewing his notes on translation. By his feet, Wuffles gnawed away on the empty banged grains bag. All in all, the first Ankh-Morporkian presentation of "The Lord of the Rings Trilogy" had been a smashing success. Havelock took one last sip of his tea, which had cooled during the production.

"Rufus," he said calmly. "I don't care who you have to kill, what you have to destroy, or where you have to go, but if you value your life, never let Captain Carrot get his hands on this."

"Yes, sir." Drumknot left his employer to dispose of the disk as Vetinari stared into the fire. _Were it not for Wuffles, _he thought,_ that would have been me. _


	5. A Matter of Distraction

A/N: Just when Tolkien was beginning to think he could rest easy, I joined a ficathon featuring Denethor and Finduilas. And Pratchett began to relax, I returned Denethor to L-Space. Their characters belong to them, and this chapter goes to the author Edorass Lass and the artist Chmiel for their inspiration for Faramir's acting abilities.

* * *

"Denethor!" Finduilas appeared at the door to his study, white with rage. A crumpled parchment was fisted angrily in her hand. "Look what that… that beast left in the library." The paper was thrust towards him as if it were a gift from Sauron himself. "What if our children had found it first?"

Denethor calmly smoothed the crumpled sheet, righted it, and read the title. He was fighting a smirk three words in. "Havelock, you bastard," he intoned expressionlessly. "Now you understand why we wanted to add a scorpion pit in the dungeon?" he asked his wife.

"Don't start on that. There must be some way to cut off these creatures without endangering the servants or my boys." The Lady of Gondor crossed her arms firmly, but her husband could tell that the rage was beginning to drain from her; and with it her burst of strength.

"Come, Finduilas, you know I'll find something." He opened his arms to her, and she joined him in the chair. "Havelock didn't mean to frighten you or the boys; he simply thought he had found an amusing distraction for me."_ A better distraction than he may have intended_, Denethor added to himself, kissing her hair. "Besides, I doubt the boys could read it. I can't make out half of what this so-called 'author' intended."

"My babies would_ never_ grow up that way," Finduilas growled softly.

"And I would never do that to them, or their beloveds. Though I wouldn't accept a Haradric girl at my Boromir's side without some very careful background checks," the Steward reassured her.

In the still-open doorway, a small face peeked around the corner. "S'ory, Papa?" their younger son asked hopefully, seeing his mother curled up in his father's lap.

"Not right now, Faramir." Denethor stashed Havelock's "present" under a pile of reports. Perhaps he could read it later.

"'Es, Papa," the three-year-old responded dutifully.

"Come cuddle with us, Faramir," Finduilas called to him before he could toddle away from the office. The boy's face lit up, and he happily clambered up between his parents. "Where is your brother, though? I thought Boromir said he was going to help watch you today."

"I was a kitty t'day. Nanny says we can't have kitties in th' room." Faramir looked rather proud of his acting abilities.

His parents exchanged glances over his head. "I'll get him and see if he can explain," Denethor sighed. Havelock hardly had to send him stories for the Steward to find sufficient distractions on the nanny's day off. Still, as he came back to the office, a rather guilty-looking Boromir in tow, Denethor reflected that he wouldn't have it any other way. Now all he needed was to find a sufficently ample distraction for the Patrician. It was much easier, when folk considered you evil.


End file.
